


Fraying at the Edges

by samidha



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Gen, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-04
Updated: 2008-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 02:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11704941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: They've been in Palo Alto for two days and Dean has an idea.





	Fraying at the Edges

**Author's Note:**

> Continuing with the massive upload and such. I have a lot of episodic fics and I'm trying to sort through all my one shots right now, it's mostly working. Going by tags on my dreamwidth. There are 1-2 that may never end up here but most will be here in the end.

Dean's not even thinking, two days later, when he says, "Sammy, you need a drink." It's just what he would do, what watching Sam walk around like a ghost is making him _want_ to do. Sam staring at nothing and Dean staring at Sam, jaw slightly slack and lips parted a little, then pressed into a thin line. He didn't know Jess. He can't say, "She was great," or "She really loved you," or talk about that time in that bar or when he knows Jess got Sam to skip out on classes willingly for the first time in his geek life. And he definitely can't say, "At least I was here. Thank fuck I was here."

So he says, "You need a drink." It's something to fill the air with. Sam nods like it's just a sound in the air. His face doesn't change at all. Dean wrestles with how they'll do this, if he'll drag his broken brother out in public or if that's too much to ask right now. In the end, it's Dean not wanting to let Sam out of his sight even for the sweet song of alcohol bought on Aframian's tab--just, not now, not fucking now--that decides him. They'll go out, pay for the pleasure of a barman and a sour waitress (Dean hopes she's sour and ugly, because tonight is Sam's. The next age is Sam's if he wants it), and Dean'll see how long Sam can keep it together. If Sam can get it together--just stop staring, just for a minute. It would be worth it.

Dean should have known the waitress would be some young, preppy thing, and fucking blonde, fucking California blond, and nothing else about this moment matters right now. When Sam jerks his eyes away like he's just been punched, seeing her, Dean hates himself just that much more.

Dean hates California.

He turns to Sam, tries to question him on what he'll actually drink these days, but Sam's just-- The waitress is getting fidgety, bouncing a little on her feet and Dean doesn't want to hear any crap come out of her mouth about Sammy or about him or just anything at all. He wants her to not exist. So he just barks some random drink name at her and she rolls her eyes (what the fuck are you even doing here, what the fuck, who are you people) and Dean would totally school her today but Sam, man, fucking Sam and this fucking mess....

Dean's brain sort of shuts down for a few moments that are just too long, because he should say something heartfelt and awesome, and it's not that he doesn't want to, not that he doesn't want to just have that, be that for Sam right now. It's just that he's Dean and he was never allowed that kind of thing, never time or space or thought for it. He hasn't had Sam there the last four years to even keep that shit on his radar. And this is not about what Dean hasn't had, but that's just the truth.

The drink comes, some kind of vodka thing and it doesn't matter what it is, Sam just keeps his eyes boring into the table and slams the drink back. The waitress is just two tables over and he calls, "Two more," half for her, half for Sam, because if Sam's going to just knock shit back like that then Dean doesn't want him to run dry. Dean wouldn't want to run dry.

She looks a little skeptically at Sam again, then shrugs. Paying customer. And that's damn right, she fucking better get over it. Dean claps him on the shoulder and gets nothing. Okay. They'll do the three drinks and then maybe he'll will concede defeat because it's bad in the motel room, but at least there Sammy's grief isn't on display.

After the third drink, though, Sam actually asks for another, and Dean's got to start drinking now if they're staying. So he does, the cool slide of whiskey down his throat a welcome addition to this cluster-fuck, joins Sam in drinking vodka after that to keep things in the realm of even.

He cuts Sam off after four, though, because, Jesus. Sam hasn't really looked up at all since he saw the waitress and her totally bad, tacky, stupid hair, but now he's kind of tipping in his chair and wow, okay, Dean has fucked his brother up good. Maybe he'll sleep. Some real sleep.

"Okay, kiddo," he says, "We're done."

"Why?" Sam says, barely whispers it, like he's nearly faded out of this world, and Dean's stomach twists at that thought. He just got Sam back and Sam doesn't want the world, never mind Dean--Dean's not even on the radar right now, and this is so thousands of miles past his worst case scenario for when he showed up here.

It could be worse, considering the fire. Sam could be--

Fuck. No. Fuck. Fucking God.

"We're done 'cause you gotta sleep," he says, keeps it simple. He throws some random bills down on the table and concentrates on maneuvering his giant brother out of there.

He gets Sam back to the Impala, buckles him in, and it's the way Sam just lolls a little in his seat that starts the voice in Dean's head again. _Bang up job you did here, Dean. You're an_ awesome _big bro._

Yeah. Well. Dean'd like to see _it_ try being here with Sam right now, okay?

Into the motel room, into the stink of sweat and stale air and cigarette smoke that aren't theirs--burns on the sheets, but right now? Dean just has to get Sam laid out and passed out. He's supporting more of Sam's weight than he ever likes to. This night just needs to be over. _So it can start all over again tomorrow._

Tomorrow's the funeral, and there'll be other people to prop Sam up a little, or help Sam prop himself up.

Sam hits the bed with a thud befitting his giant frame, eyes already closed, and Dean breathes, then remembers why that's a bad idea. 

And then remembers why, fuck, this is a really bad idea. Oh, Jesus. _Sam, just sleep. Just sleep, please._

"S'my fault," Sam murmurs dejectedly into his pillow. "My fault. Jess. So sorry. Jess."

He doesn't cry. He just starts... quaking there, like he's dried out--wrung out. He reaches up, and Dean's there to provide something to grab hold of. It's bred into him, no matter how far he is from what Sam wants right now.

Sam's giant hand closes around Dean's arm and Dean feels small and stupid but doesn't move. If Sam had two brain cells in working order right now he'd propel his brother off the bed, but he doesn't let go. 

"My fault," he murmurs again. 

Dean can't hear that, doesn't care how natural it is. "No it isn't, Sammy. No way."

Sam's eyes open, half-lidded, and he looks up at Dean. "You're here," he says, his voice so soft, and Dean doesn't want to bank on there being relief in it, but maybe, maybe there is.

"Yeah, Sammy, 'course."

"Missed you. You should stay. Please?"

Fuck this smoke, man. Dean's eyes....

"Yeah. I'm stayin', Sammy. I got you now."

Sam closes his eyes again and doesn't say anything else, but shimmies closer, and Dean climbs into Sam's double bed before he can over-think things. He's fucked tonight up bad enough, if Sam wants to play cuddle-slut, he's earned it.

Dean dreams of Sam fraying around the edges like paper, bits of him falling away like confetti in the wind, and all the color leeching out of his brother. He runs, catching bits of Sam in his hands and bringing them back again. He knows he'll never catch up, not the way every time he touches his brother brings the sound of paper ripping, but Dean just can't stop trying.


End file.
